


you're selfish with your affection

by haiplana



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: ? - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Confusion, F/F, Fluff, Slow Burn, Smut, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 15:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19948492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haiplana/pseuds/haiplana
Summary: Charlotte Wells doesn’t know what she wants.Her entire life has consisted of satisfying the whims of others; her profession relies on her ability to do what the wealthiest of men (and women, recently) wish for. She’ll continue giving London’s wealthiest what they want, with pleasure; no one is going to demand anything more from her.Charlotte Wells knows what Isabella Fitzwilliam wants.Isabella’s sweet words aren’t enough of a coating to mask the desire that almost radiates from her. Charlotte smiles, isn’t surprised when Isabella reaches for her, wraps an arm around her waist and pulls them as close as they can get around their gowns. Their lips meet for the first time in a year.--Four times Charlotte Wells has no idea what she wants, and the one time Isabella Fitzwilliam is all she needs.





	you're selfish with your affection

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a one-shot, but I was really behind in writing it and wanted to get at least the first part out before 3x03 came out. here we are, twenty minutes before midnight!

I.

Charlotte Wells doesn’t know what she wants.

Really, she’s never had to have that sorted out. Her entire life has consisted of satisfying the whims of others; her profession relies on her ability to do what the wealthiest of men (and women, recently) wish for. She was very good at it when she first started, likely because she had been doing what her mother had wanted for as long as she remembered.

Even as a bawd, she’s confined to operating based on the wants of the men that visit her house. She refuses to add another layer of pandering to wishes to her life, so she shrugs off the Pinchers like an early shroud. She’ll continue giving London’s wealthiest what they want, with pleasure; no one is going to demand anything more from her.

Charlotte Wells knows what Isabella Fitzwilliam wants.

She can read it in the hungry look in Isabella’s eyes, the curve of her mouth that resembles a smirk more than a smile. Isabella’s sweet words aren’t enough of a coating to mask the desire that almost radiates from her. Charlotte smiles, isn’t surprised when Isabella reaches for her, wraps an arm around her waist and pulls them as close as they can get around their gowns. Their lips meet for the first time in a year.

It’s familiar, despite the months that have passed since Charlotte has had Isabella. The last time, it was a generous service, a way for Charlotte to take her friend from a place of self-loathing and denial. It was something that Isabella needed. Charlotte was always happy to give Isabella the things that she needed, to aid her in any way that she could. Isabella deserved to live a full life despite the trauma that befell her by her brother’s hand.

The year had done Isabella well. Even in the time that Charlotte was too angry to speak to Isabella, she was always thrilled to hear of how she was getting on well with Sophia, living now as a woman on her own with her agency. Isabella visited Greek Street more frequently as they began to repair their relationship, and each meeting saw Isabella a more confident and savvy individual. Charlotte never forgot the first time she took her to bed and stripped away the first layer of pain along with her clothes.

Now, Charlotte grasps Isabella, begins to move to the chaise with her, becomes consumed by her more than she would like to admit. It’s another service for her friend, a favor for a favor — at least, that’s what she tells herself. But this time, Isabella has no more venom for Charlotte to suck. She’s all sugar and a bit of spice and, as Charlotte pushes the overcoat from Isabella’s shoulders, she absently thinks that Isabella might be the one doing the service for her.

Charlotte Wells gets on her knees in front of Isabella Fitzwilliam, and the earth seems to take a break from spinning for a moment as Isabella sits up and breathes, staring at Charlotte with a raised brow.

“Should we not go to my bed?” she asks, and her confusion is written in the parting of her lips and the breathlessness of her voice.

Charlotte runs a hand down Isabella’s neck and chest, fingers at the seam keeping her breasts within her corset. “This is fine.” She presses kisses across the top of Isabella’s gown.

“But I will not be able to touch you.”

Charlotte falters for a moment, pauses mid-kiss, and she presses her thighs together. Having a cull means pleasuring _them_ , not worrying about her own pleasure. Of course, it’s a bit different when it’s a man, and Charlotte hasn’t yet figured out what the procedure is for entertaining women, but she’s sure Isabella doesn’t need to touch her for it to be satisfying for her.

“No need.” She begins lifting the layers of Isabella’s skirts, trying to find her way beneath them. She reaches Isabella’s warm thighs, fits her head beneath the fabrics, then kisses up and down the little marks in her skin.

Isabella is already whimpering above her, and she can’t help but want to see the look on her face, so she removes herself from the apex of Isabella’s thighs and replaces her lips with her fingers. She teases the skin, rakes her nails over the tops and around the insides, then stops. She looks up and barely sees blue around blown pupils in Isabella’s eyes. Her fingers find the wetness of Isabella’s folds, and she smiles when Isabella nods before her head falls back on the rest of the chaise.

Charlotte circles her clit slowly at first, and Isabella’s hips begin to move. She’s already panting, and Charlotte remembers that, as long as it had been for Charlotte without sex as a bawd, it’s been longer for Isabella — longer than a year, to be exact. She pities the woman, but seeing Isabella practically keen for her sets her heart beating faster. Charlotte wants to see Lady Fitz beg.

It’s a challenge with their gowns, but Charlotte manages to keep her fingers on Isabella’s clit while bringing her lips closer to Isabella’s ear. She kisses Isabella’s jaw and nibbles just below it, and Isabella gasps.

“Is there something you want, Lady Isabella?” Charlotte whispers.

Isabella’s hips lift higher. “You.”

Charlotte lets a finger slip lower, through her folds once, then takes it away. “You’re always poetic, Isabella, but that wasn’t very specific. Mincing words won’t get you what you want.”

“I want…” Isabella lifts her head and looks at Charlotte again. She’s trying to keep herself under control, Charlotte can see it in the flex of her neck muscles. She leans forward and traps Charlotte’s lips despite the strange angle. “I want you inside of me.”

Charlotte moves two fingers to Isabella’s entrance. Isabella sighs. “Manners?”

“ _Please_.”

Charlotte remembers what fucking Isabella Fitzwilliam is like, soft breaths and grasping hands. Isabella was demure but still expressive, though more careful with where she touched Charlotte and how she did it. As Charlotte begins filling her with two fingers and with the heel of her hand on her clit, Isabella finally lets go, even more than before. One hand goes to the pillow on the end of the chaise, the other to the back of Charlotte’s neck. Her fingers latch onto the strands of hair at top of her neck and pull. Charlotte doesn’t even need to hear the first moan to know she’s doing the right thing.

She doesn’t waste time anymore, immediately thrusting with all the strength of her arm. Isabella is happy for it, smiles as she moans and scratches Charlotte’s scalp. Charlotte’s neck and arm are aching when she adds a third finger to stretch Isabella, and the lady lets out a strangled sound from the back of her throat. She can feel Isabella fighting to keep her thighs apart and her hips from completely bucking into the heel of Charlotte’s hand.

It’s only a few more thrusts, and then the fingers in her hair become painful and Isabella cries so loud Charlotte is sure passersby on the street hear it. She strokes three more times to help her come down, then removes her hand from the skirts and moves to sit on the chaise beside the breathless Isabella. Isabella turns to look at her, her eyes lidded in satiety. Charlotte watches as the pleasure drains from Isabella’s face, and in its stead fills an attentiveness that makes Charlotte uncomfortable. She doesn’t like how Isabella’s eyes roam her body, seem to stare beyond the haughtiness that Charlotte portrays when she entertains culls.

Charlotte stands, and she goes to the tea tray in the sitting room that thankfully has a cloth napkin still sitting on it. She wipes her fingers, then brings the cloth and offers it to Isabella.

“You said you rarely take men to bed,” Isabella says, yet she phrases it like a question. Charlotte isn’t sure how she’s supposed to answer.

“It’s the life of a bawd.” Charlotte shrugs, goes to the mirror above the mantle and checks her hair. “Someone has to run the house while the girls are rutting upstairs.”

She sees Isabella nod through the mirror. “I suppose it gives you free time to explore other pursuits.”

Charlotte turns back to Isabella and finds the woman’s eyes wide, shining a bit in the dim candlelight. She bites the corner of her lip, too, a sight Charlotte has only seen but once, the moment before she first took Isabella to her bed.

“I hadn’t thought of that, but I do find myself sitting about the house without anything to do. What do you suggest? Knitting, needlepoint? Calligraphy, maybe?” Charlotte laughs as she imagines herself embroidering a new outfit for baby Kitty. The pursuits of a lady, for Charlotte Wells? Her mother would roll over in her—

“The opera.”

Charlotte focuses on Isabella again. “Sorry?”

“If you have time now,” Isabella begins, and she takes a breath and seems to shake the fluster from before. “I would like you to come to the opera with me.”

“When?”

“Saturday night.” Isabella’s eyes are once again too intense for Charlotte to look at. “Come for supper at seven, and we will go at half past eight.”

Charlotte takes a few steps, feeling completely off balance. There was once a time that Isabella couldn’t be seen in public with Charlotte for fear of ill repute. “I never liked the opera, couldn’t understand the words and lost interest…” She looks back to Isabella, whose gaze has already fallen. “I’ll go with you. It’ll be a nice evening. Thank you for the invite.”

Isabella smiles then and shifts to the end of the chaise. “It will.”

Charlotte isn’t sure what to do — she’s never just _left_ a cull’s house, and this is her friend and co-conspirator, not just a slimy man. She thinks she should kiss Isabella or ask for payment. Instead, she does neither, just goes for the door of the sitting room and half-turns, awkwardly waiting for some permission of leave she knows she doesn’t need.

“Won’t you stay?” Isabella asks quietly.

“Can’t.” Charlotte takes another small step out of the room. “I have to check on my girls, make sure they’re getting on at Harriet’s.”

Isabella looks down, smooths her gown, and when she looks back, her face has steeled. “Saturday, then.”

“Seven.” Charlotte punctuates her statement with a nod and goes from the room. The footman that she often sees at the door is waiting for her as she charges away from Isabella. He gives her a knowing look, and she strokes her fingers over his cheek, just as she had earlier, before leaving the house.

It’s cold outside, and Charlotte wants to go back in, but she knows she can’t. She is the bawd of Greek Street now, and she won’t take more of Isabella’s time, even when the lady seemed happy for her company. Isabella is nothing but polite, wanting to give Charlotte the hospitality of a place to rest after a fuck.

Then she sees Issac Pincher.

She isn’t sure why he’s lurking — again — but his presence outside of Isabella’s house makes her stomach turn. Charlotte knows what he is capable of, knows that, despite their perfect plan to keep him off her back, he might retaliate yet. Charlotte has put too many people she cares about in danger; she won’t let Isabella be the next victim. She also remembers the ache between her thighs and knows how easy a man like Issac is. Two birds, Charlotte thinks.

They fuck in an alley near Greek Street like the homeless whores on Cheapside.


End file.
